


Of Duels and Duets

by foreverfixation



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, baz is a terrible person/ruler, but baz is a king and simon's the face of a revolution, i have no idea how this is going to end, i'm not really sure how to tag it, probably happy ending tho, the mage is also mentioned but he died before the story even started SO
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverfixation/pseuds/foreverfixation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Penny are leading a revolution, and Baz is the king. What could possibly happen? (I'll tell you. It's romance.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Simon

**Author's Note:**

> I made the characters slightly older, because 18's a little young to rule a country/lead a revolution. Also the first chapter is incredibly short (it's really more of a prologue than anything else) and I'm sorry Baz isn't in it, but the next chapter's his POV so . . . yeah. I hope you enjoy!

As my carriage bumps along the dirt road, I lie my head against the seat. Penny grumbles in the seat across from mine, something about the bumpy roads really doing a number on her handwriting. She’s the real brains behind the operation. I’m just the face, the one she hands speeches to a week before I have to present them. She claims it’s just because she needs time to figure out our ideals or whatever, but I know it’s because I would be useless doing anything else. I’m passionate, sure, but that’s where my strengths end. Emotions make me clumsy. I don’t know why she even includes me in the meetings where we read the latest correspondence from the king and she decides how to respond.

The king. We’re on our way to meet him now, and I’m more than a little nervous. We’ve been talking for a little over a year now, and it’s been civil so far, but there are horror stories about him.

His mother, the queen, was legendary. They say she hung the moon.

Of course, we poorer folks were discriminated against then too. But a cult of personality formed around her, making her one of the most popular leaders we had ever had. When she died, everyone mourned. Everyone but my father. He saw it as an opportunity for a revolution.

He died eight years ago, a full ten years after the queen. Never accomplished anything, either. We only found his papers five years ago, and we’re already meeting with the king. Penny took my father’s ideas for the country and adapted them, making them less “enslave the nobility” and more based on “representation for the less fortunate.” This is another area where my presence is crucial: I help bring in my nutjob dad’s old followers, while still symbolizing a change from the old, failed rebellion.

Not only did my dad fail at leading a rebellion, but he also failed at being a father. He used to tell me that he was making the world right for me, but you don’t have that kind of foresight when you’re a kid. All you know is that you are the only kid in your class that has to go do the grocery shopping because your dad’s holed up in his room writing again. I bet he has some warped sense of pride that I’m following in his footsteps. That thought always makes me want to shout at the sky. _I’m not doing this for you! I’m doing it for our people!_ It’s not like he could hear me anyway.

“Simon.” I hear Penny’s voice, and look over to her. She has her eyebrows raised above the rim of her glasses, and she’s looking pointedly at the fists I didn’t know I was making. I unclench them, leaving red marks in my palms from my nails.

If the people loved the queen, they don’t know what to make of her son. He officially ascended the throne five years ago, but all most people have heard about him are rumors. People say he’s heartless, bloodthirsty, a monster. I’ve never seen that come out in his letters, but Penny says he probably doesn’t even write them. So I guess it’s possible that he actually enjoys seeing people suffer, but I hope he doesn’t. For mine and Penny’s sake.

Penny nudges my knee and points out the window. I scoot over and press my nose against the glass, like a little kid. The capitol is in sight with its gleaming castle on the hilltop. The sun’s only rising now, and it’s reflecting of the windows of the castle, making it look like it’s glowing.

That’s where we’re going.

To the castle.

And the king.


	2. Baz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz meets with some peasants, makes a judgement in a dispute, and royally screws up his first meeting with Simon (and Penny). Someone needs to give him a lesson on not pissing off peasants (and not being a total ass to the hot guy in your house.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me like three and a half months to write this chapter. I have no idea why.  
> Anyway, it's longer, and has actual snowbaz interactions, and poor Baz kinda needs a hug (even though he totally brought this on himself)

I shifted my chin from one hand to the other. Another morning of attempting to solve insignificant problems, while avoiding my own. I waved my hand, the signal to open the doors and show the first peasant in.

The first is shown in, one in a long line of tattered and torn subjects asking for food. I nodded to what they were saying, trying (and probably failing) to not look bored. There’s nothing I can do if the harvest was bad and we’re in a drought. One of my guards shows each famished creature to a door where they are given a small piece of bread, enough to show we’re trying but not enough to have the whole kingdom pounding on the doors.

There are a few peasants who bring me presents to win my favor. (That’s what they say. These tributes make my father smile, because it means his propaganda is working.) (The peasants are actually afraid of me.) Today alone, I have received: a sack of potatoes, a chicken, a cat, and a bushel of wheat. And it’s only been four hours.

 Finally, we reach the last audience. I see my father smirk out of the corner of my eye; he’s purposely saved the most interesting for last. The guards show in a peasant and a noble. Interested, I sit up straighter. Nobles don’t generally make use of this time; they consider themselves too important.

 “Your Majesty,” the Duke of Blackthall bows deeply to me; I swear his toupee nearly falls off his head. I get away with rolling my eyes while he’s still staring at his own shoes. He rises with a flourish, causing his half-cloak to billow out behind him. (What a prick.) “This _in_ -solent peon”—yes, he severely emphasized the beginning of insolent—“has _demanded_ that _you_ be involved with a, um, _minor_ disagreement we are having.” I hate this man, from his gold-embroidered cloak to his fake beauty mark to his garish speech. 

“Well?” I ask. “Would you care to tell me what it is?”

 The peasant takes a deep breath to calm herself. “Your Majesty, His Grace has decided that he wishes to build himself a swimming pool.” She looks at me expectantly.

 “And? Surely you aren’t disagreeing over whether or not the Duke has the authority to build a swimming pool.” I shouldn’t have to drag this out of them; I begin to drum my fingers on the arm of my throne. The peasant grows rather flustered, and my father smiles. Seems I have achieved the desired effect of fear.

 “O-of course not, sire! His Grace is attempting to build his swimming pool in my field, where I grow the potatoes my family needs to survive.” She turns red as she says this and clenches her fists. Despite my better judgement, I admire her and her gall; she has enough nerve to come to me personally, regardless of my father’s crusade to influence the view my subjects have of me.

 I find myself facing a dilemma. On one hand, I know that the peasant should be allowed to work for her family, and that swimming pools replacing crop fields in the middle of a famine might not be the best idea; on the other hand, my father is standing two feet to my right, and he wants me to rule with an iron fist. Plus, the potato blight does mean that the peasant can’t really do much growing right now anyway, right? I sigh, deliberating further and weighing the two outcomes in my head.

 A messenger enters the room, running up the aisle and speaking in hushed tones with my father for a few moments, before both men exit, heading toward the castle’s front gate. _With my father gone,_ I think, _I should be able to make my own decision on this matter._

 “Your Grace.” My voice echoes, reverberating off the walls. The Duke’s head snaps back toward me, remembering, for the moment, that I am the center of attention, not that wretched messenger.

 “Yes, Your Majesty?” Tension seems to fill the room, like a flood of water rising past our ankles (like filling a swimming pool, perhaps?); everyone is holding their breath in anticipation of my decision. These are the moments I live for, when I hold complete and utter control over the room.

 “It seems to me that, since this peasant’s field is on your estate, it is entirely up to you what happens to it.” I watch the peasant’s face fall. “After all, it’s not as though she had a particularly bountiful harvest, as far as I’m aware.”

 I watch the guards lead a grinning Duke and his blubbering peasant from the room, allowing me a minute to breathe before my father returns. I slump down in my throne. I wish there had been a way to both displease the Duke and dishearten the girl. I ponder this hope for a moment longer, until another messenger bursts through the doors of the throne room.

 “Sire, the King Regent requests your presence in the Great Hall.”

 “Yes, thank you.” I respond, distracted slightly by this request. Why should he need me in the great hall? We never use it. The throne room is much better: less flashy and better acoustics for speaking. And anyway, I wasn’t aware of anyone arriving, dignitaries and such. Surely my father would have told me if someone important was paying a visit.

 I stand up and pull my cape from the throne, clasping it at my throat. My attire helps me get in character; I hold my head up higher, and walk more determinedly, listening to the heels of my boots click against the marble floors.

 When I arrive at the Great Hall, I dismiss the herald with a wave of my hand. (I find it much more enjoyable to catch disgruntled nobles chatting about me behind my back than make a dramatic entrance like some kind of showman.) The guards stationed at the door ceremoniously open the doors, and I prepare myself to meet with my mystery guest. (There’s no other reason my father would have summoned me here, to this hall.)

 Surprisingly, I’m not met with a huge delegation, or even an ostentatious noble who takes themselves too seriously. Instead, I see two relatively confident, rumpled . . . peasants, I suppose, although they don’t carry themselves like peasants.

 I hear my father clear his throat, and my head snaps instantly from my rough appraisal of the vagabonds before me to my father’s face. He’s glaring at me, no doubt displeased that I chose this particular meeting to forgo the herald, making him announce me himself. “May I announce His Majesty, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, First of His Name, King of Dravucura and her colonies.” The girl before me drops into a deep (and flawless) curtsy, and I don’t miss her pulling her companion into a bow beside her. “Your Majesty, may I present Penelope Bunce and Simon Snow.”

 Although outwardly I do no more than nod my head, inwardly I draw back as if I had been burned. For the first time, I regard the pair in front of me with more than bored acceptance; instead, I begin to study them with careful curiosity mixed with a pinch of fear.

 Even isolated in the castle, I have heard of Simon Snow. The face of a rebellious group known only as the Moonshifters, he and his devoted followers have been sowing the seed of discontent across my country. While I understand that the peasants are…displeased with the lack of water, I know that nothing short of a miracle would be able to end this drought.

 I allow my attention to fully focus on the boy standing in front of me, and I can almost believe that he is the miracle my people are searching for.

_The carriage mustn’t have had A/C,_ I comment to myself, as my eyes rake over Snow’s curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. He can’t have combed it in a while, either, because it’s all sticking up on one side. From his hair my eyes are drawn to his forehead, and down his face and neck to the small amount of chest I can see from his shirt, unbuttoned at the top to attempt to provide some respite from the sweltering heat outside. (I purposely avoid his eyes.) There are small constellations of freckles and, darker, moles speckling his skin, perfect in their imperfections. His nose, his mouth…his face is the perfect one for a revolution. Then my eyes finally come to rest on his. (He’s glancing around the room, looking anywhere but at me.) They’re the most perfect shade of azure, the color of the sky on a cloudless day or the ocean when the sun hits it just right. Not the cloudy ocean that meets our shores, either; Snow’s eyes are the clearest tropical ocean.

_Oh no;_ I feel my pulse quicken as my thoughts betray me. I shove my traitorous appraisal of the rebel into the shadowy recesses of my mind, like I do with any thought that doesn’t match my façade as I turn my gaze to the small girl standing next to Snow. Unlike her companion, she has been staring boldly at me since I walked through the doors. While she is undoubtedly pretty, she isn’t nearly as striking as Snow. _Of course_ , I think ruefully, suppressing a grimace, _that could be my bias coming into play._ Bunce’s hair is impossibly curly, pulled back into a ponytail to keep it off her neck. A pair of glasses is settled on her nose, and she has a way of looking over their rims that is at once curious and condescending. Her features are more familiar to me as well; I’ve met both of her parents in court before. Her father was boring and forgettable; I only remember him as a background image in my memories of this Bunce’s mother. She left a considerable impression, as someone significantly more spirited and almost more fiery than most of the drowsy nobles I had met in my life, combined. I am pleased at least _some_ of this spirit continues in her daughter.

 I am brought from my reverie by my father clearing his throat. I blink a few times, bringing the throne room back into focus. I am aware that my father had said…something, although I have no idea what it was. “Your Majesty, our guests shall be staying with us for an undetermined amount of time, as we listen to their demands and attempt to reach a reasonable compromise. Before the politics however, I suggest we sit down to lunch, as I imagine our guests must be very hungry from their long trip.”

 I find myself nodding along, as always. “Yes, lunch is a wonderful idea.” (I notice a crease smooth out in Snow’s forehead. Not because I’m watching him or anything.”

 My father smiles.  “Good. Shall we proceed to the dining hall?” he asks, and, without waiting for an answer, he ushers us into the hallway.

 A small alarm goes off in my head. Lunch shouldn’t be ready yet; I had no inkling we were receiving guests until twenty minutes ago, so the kitchen shouldn't have known—at least not until my father left the throne room. Which can only mean one thing: my father had been aware of this impending meeting, and he has been preparing for it for God knows how long. I make a mental note to confront him about it when we are alone.

 When my father opens a door, I step inside first, gliding to the back of the room to take my customary place at the head of the table. Suddenly, I find myself grateful for first my father and then Bunce; my father for taking his usual seat at my left, and Bunce for leaving the seat at my right for Snow. Because of this, I have a perfect view of Snow’s face: slack-jawed, eyes wide, staring at the table like a shipwrecked sailor would stare at an island as he slowly drifted closer in his rowboat. Bewildered by his expression, my eyes flicker down to the table, but all I see is food.

 “Please, be seated,” I hear myself say mechanically. As soon as the chair is supporting him Snow’s shoveling food into his mouth. It’s all I can do to keep myself from staring, instead I am glancing at him from the corner of my eye as I focus on my own food. Is this really what it’s like out there? That this boy, this beautiful, beautiful boy, is eating as though he’s afraid that the food will disappear and his stomach will be empty again? Are all the people out there truly this ravenous?

 Between my stolen glances at Snow and the effort it seems to be taking to focus on my food and not him, I’m only vaguely aware of the conversation between my father and Bunce across the table. All I can discern from their conversation is what seems to me to be polite small talk about the drought, but something seems to be driving the conversation towards something a bit more heated.

 By the time I’ve finished my meal, Snow looks about ready to burst, and Bunce and my father seem to have increased their conversation to a full-out argument. Eager as I am to regain control of the situation and grateful for the distraction from the warzone my father and Bunce have created, I wave over a servant to begin clearing the lunch dishes away.

 “What are you doing?” I hear a troubled voice from my right. Snow almost sounds like he’s going to cry, but when I look over at him, astonished, he’s simmering with rage. (I have to admit, it’s a good look for him.)

 “I’m—I’m sorry, were you still eating?” I could have sworn he couldn’t eat another bite. (Somehow, my subconscious registers that my father and Bunce have stopped their argument in favor of watching whatever’s going to happen here.)

 “Of course not, I couldn’t eat another bite. But you’re not—” he gestures his hand toward the table, “—not going to _dispose_ of this, are you?” At this point, he’s positively seething, and I’m beginning to suspect why.

 “Well yeah,” (there go my lessons in eloquence) “I mean, what would _you_ do, were you _king_?” At the word “king,” I draw my lip up into a sneer. Finally, it seems, I’ve remembered myself, and I draw myself up to my full height. This boy, regardless of how he looks, is a peasant, the son of a failed rebel leader. Lower than the (hypothetical, of course) dirt on my shoe.

 Snow turns bright red and stammers a bit before I cut him off. “I’m sure you’ve got a _brilliant_ plan, to feed your _precious peasants_. And I’m sure I can implement it. Would you like to see them grovel? Beg, until the leftover scraps from my table are thrown to them like dogs? Or would you prefer they fight over the food, pushing and shoving and _hurting_ each other like the animals they are?"

 Snow’s voice returns to him in that moment. “Better a begging dog than a lazy, selfish pig.” And with that, he storms from the room, drawing all the air from my lungs as if he punched me and bringing it with him.

 Bunce is hot on his heels, but before she goes she turns to my father and informs him: “We will need the remainder of the day to rest, and shall take our dinner in our rooms.” Then she sweeps from the room.

 I slump back into my chair, losing my confidence and kingly arrogance, as I refuse to meet my father’s eye. He lays a hand on my shoulder, and quietly says, “You handled that well,” before leaving me alone with my thoughts.

 I slump forward, now, and cradle my head in my hands, elbows resting on my knees. A servant reaches in front of me, and I catch his arm as he clears my plate away.

 “Add these leftovers to the stores of bread for the peasants who come begging.” The servant nods, then flees from the room.

 I wish I could flee from myself.


End file.
